The Last Good Man

by Linda Nagata

  They’re almost at the bridge when True hands a raincoat to Lincoln. “I’m ready,” she says.

  The bridge is modern, wider than the road, low concrete sides topped with steel railings. Rey drives across it, then eases the SUV into a muddy pullout. Lincoln and True get out. She pulls up the hood of her rain jacket. Their boots stick in a fine, sucking mud as they walk back to the bridge. A sweet scent of flowers and spice defies the rain. For now, there is no other traffic.

  Lincoln gestures her to go ahead. She pulls her hood off again. “Can’t hear anything with that up,” she mutters. The rain beads on her hair as they stand at the railing. Lincoln has positioned himself to hide her from Rey’s sight if he’s looking in the rearview mirror.

  The stream below is running fast from the intermittent rain, water brown with suspended silt. True has disassembled both pistols, removing the magazines and separating the slides from the lower receivers. She leans down to rest her forearms on the railing and drops the pieces in. They vanish in the brown current. The extra ammo follows.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks, just loud enough to be heard over the rushing water.

  “I don’t think a Chinese intelligence agency fielded that hawk.”

  She looks up in surprise. “No?”

  “It doesn’t feel right. This whole thing feels off.”

  She straightens up, pushing a few strands of wet hair off her forehead. “Targeting Nungsan was extreme.”

  “Agreed. So is running a surveillance program eight years out. That’s why I’m starting to think it’s personal. Someone with influence who would be affected if the truth got out. Someone with resources, used to outsourcing on-the-ground activity. The biomimetic hawk was the same here as back home.”

  She thinks about this, then says, “I’m not sure if that’s better or worse. You have any idea who we’re talking about?”

  He follows her gaze to the muddy water. No sign of the gun parts. He hopes they’re working their way downstream. “Not a clue.”

  She says, “They’ll be hunting for Shaw just like we are, but we have the advantage. We know for sure he’s alive. We know the name he’s using. All they’ll learn from our conversation with Daniel is that he escaped Nungsan.”

  The rain paints cool tracks down his face and the back of his neck. His shirt is getting wet. “They’re determined,” he reminds her. “They’ll figure it out.” He juts his chin, indicating the stream. “I’m thinking they’ll try to slow us down in the meantime.”

  She looks up at him again. That fever-bright gaze. “You thought Rey must have guessed about the guns. You think he said something?”

  “No. But Rey and Daniel have enemies. It wouldn’t be hard to get the cops curious about why we’re here, why we’re talking to them. But we’re clean now. It won’t matter.” He cocks his head toward the car. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  She catches his sleeve. “Lincoln. Do you think Shaw knew he was marked for death?”

  The question comes out of nowhere. He puzzles over it as the rain begins to abate. “How could he know?”

  “He couldn’t,” she says. “But he knew something. I mean, he got away. He got out. But he didn’t come home. There must have been a reason. What reason, Lincoln?”

  She asks him that, but she’s already guessed why—and he has too. “We can talk about it later. Let’s go.” He starts back toward the SUV.

  “He was abandoned in that place,” she says from behind him, still in that voice so soft he has to turn around to hear her clearly. “He was abandoned and he knew it. No rescue came. His brothers didn’t come for him.”

  “God damn it. We looked for him. You know we did, but we were sent on a false trail.”

  “Yes,” she says, letting him know that this is the point she wants to make. “All of us were betrayed. Shaw needs to know that.”

  Her eyes are wide and bright, too bright, with a warrior’s focus—as if she’s sizing him up the way she’d size up an enemy. She wants to find Shaw—so does he—but their reasons are not the same. “You’re feeling protective of him, True.”

  “I am.”

  “You need to be careful of that. Whatever his reason for not coming home, it doesn’t excuse what he’s done since.” He jerks his chin at the car. “Let’s get the fuck out of here while we can.”

  ~~~

  Miles watches out the rear window of the SUV as Lincoln and True walk back from the bridge. He’s not sure what’s going on between them but it’s a relief to know the guns are gone.

  When they get back in, they bring with them the odors of mud and rain-wet clothing and a sense of tension as thick as the tropical humidity. Neither offers an explanation.

  “Let’s go,” Lincoln says. Rey obeys.

  Alex helps True squirm out of her raincoat. “We okay?” he asks her.

  She raises her hand, fingers crossed, a serious look in her eyes.

  Miles feels his jaw tighten; his heart rate kicks up.

  Alex whispers, “Shit.”

  Rey glances around, a hint of worry on his brow. “Something up?”

  “Let’s all relax,” Lincoln tells them. “We’ll be fine.”

  Will we? Miles wonders.

  Clearly trouble is coming. That knowledge scares him. He wants to question Lincoln, but not in front of Rey. So he says nothing. He returns to staring out the window, stewing over what might be going on. It irritates the fuck out of him that Lincoln wants to pretend things are okay.

  They’ve gone on for maybe twenty kilometers when two chimes ring. Miles flinches at the noise. True and Lincoln react too, both reaching for their tablets. As the chimes go silent, Miles asks, “What is it?”

  Alex leans over, eyeing True’s tablet. He asks her, “Is that the traffic cam?”

  Miles twists around to look behind them, but if anyone is following, they’re not in sight.

  “Something overhead,” True says. “A UAV. Identifies as national police.”

  “Following us?” Rey asks from upfront.

  “It’s a good bet.”

  They’re rounding a long curve, almost back to the main highway, when Lincoln says in a preternaturally calm voice, “Rey, let’s slow down.”

  Rey touches the brakes, shaving their speed. “Oh,” he says as a roadblock comes into sight ahead of them. “Oh, fuck.”

  A sentiment Miles shares.

  Three police cars, lights flashing, are staggered diagonally across the road, right up to the vegetation on either side, blocking all possibility of getting past them. At least eight officers armed with long rifles crouch behind the cars. More police cars wait farther down the road.

  The sight brings Miles to the edge of panic, a physical memory of the last time he was waylaid on a remote road. His heartbeat ramps up but there’s nowhere to go.

  Lincoln tries to reassure Rey. “Take it easy. We’re going to be okay.”

  It’s not looking that way to Miles. Rey isn’t convinced either. He sounds distraught as he says, “But you’re carrying—”

  “No, it’s okay,” Lincoln insists. “Just do as they direct.”

  Rey stops well short of the barricade. He’s ordered to get out of the vehicle first, hands on his head. Then he’s told to walk to the police cars.

  Alex turns to True and with undisguised suspicion he demands, “What the fuck?”

  True responds with an exasperated eye roll, as if it’s all obvious and she is not in the least surprised. “Lincoln predicted this.”

  “Predicted what?” Miles wants to know. “What is going on?”

  “It’s a setup,” Lincoln explains. “Someone called in a tip, accused us of some high crime.”

  “Are we guilty?” Alex asks. Nothing in his tone suggests he’s joking.

  “Fuck, no,” True answers. She looks annoyed, not frightened at all. “Right now, the opposition is just scrambling to figure out what they can about the ‘American’”—her fingers move in air quotes—“and they want to take us out of the hunt
while they do.”

  “Take us out for how long? I have to be on that plane tomorrow morning. I need to be back at work.”

  True responds to this with terse sarcasm. “I’m sure the police will take your work schedule into consideration.”

  Outside, Rey has reached the barricade. He’s hustled out of sight. New orders are issued by megaphone: “One at a time! Exit the car. Hands on head.”

  “Who’s first?” Alex asks, like he just wants to get this over with. He can’t go first because he’s trapped in the middle of the seat.

  “Me,” Lincoln says, opening the door. “Remember, we’re here for personal reasons. That’s what we need to tell them, and it has the advantage of being the truth.”

  “Step away from the vehicle! Face down on the ground.”

  “Fuck,” Alex says in disgust. “If we get gunned down, the kids are going to be pissed.”

  True gives him a scathing look. “Get a grip,” she says. “They don’t have any reason to shoot us.”

  “They don’t have any reason to stop us,” he counters.

  “I’ll go next,” Miles volunteers. Despite his effort to put up a stern front, he hears a tremor in his voice. Fuck it all. He starts to open his door.

  “Miles,” True says.

  He turns to her.

  “This is not like before,” she tells him. “They’ll ask you a few questions. That’s all.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he says softly. “I understand that.”

  But what happens if the police have figured out that Lincoln printed up those guns?

  Detained

  Two hours later they’re back in Manila. Alex hasn’t seen True since the roadblock, when they were escorted to separate police cars. “Where’s my wife?” he’s asked more than once. “Why are we being detained?”

  No one consented to answer.

  He sits now at a battered steel table in an austere interview room that stinks of disinfectants. Cameras in the ceiling corners are protected by hemispherical pods. Across the table from him is a uniformed police officer, a man in his thirties, bulked up like a weightlifter, with dark eyebrows knit in a puzzled but not unfriendly expression as he asks Alex, “You are a US Army veteran, Mr. Delgado?”

  Alex frowns. Not a question he expected. What the fuck is going on?

  “Yes, I’m an army veteran, but it’s been a long time. I work now as a paramedic and I’m due back at work in about thirty-four hours. We’re scheduled to fly out in the morning.”

  The officer cocks his head as if he’s having a problem parsing this answer. “You don’t work as a mercenary for this private militia, Requisite Operations?”

  Alex narrows his eyes. “You’ve been misinformed, sir. Requisite Operations is not a militia. It’s a military contractor. And no, I don’t work for them. I’m not a mercenary. I’m a paramedic.”

  “But you are married to True Brighton?”

  “Yes, True is my wife.”

  “Your wife, she is part owner of Requisite Operations?”

  Alex inclines his head. “She has an interest, yes. But we’re here in your country for personal reasons. Nothing to do with the company.”

  The officer looks suddenly stern. “Is your wife a mercenary, Mr. Delgado?”

  ~~~

  Lincoln is in a nearby room. He’s been deprived of all electronics except for his left hand and his artificial eye, although the eye caused concern among the officers, who worried it might be capable of recording the interview. Lincoln assured them this was not the case, but they asked him to wear an eye patch anyway. He agreed to this.

  He’s already answered a few innocuous questions asked by a senior officer whose sun-worn face is flecked with dark moles. Time to get serious, he thinks as she leans forward, resting her ring-encrusted right hand on the table between them, her dark-eyed gaze fixed on him. “You control your own private militia. Is that correct, Mr. Han?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m the owner and chief executive of Requisite Operations Incorporated, a private military and security company. We are not a private militia. We are a United States government contractor and a signatory of the internationally enforced Military Company Code of Conduct. I can confirm for you that True Brighton, whom your people also took into custody, is my Director of Operations. That said, we are here in the Philippines for personal reasons unrelated to company business. The other members of our party, Miles Dushane, Alex Delgado, and Reynaldo Gabriel, are not employees of Requisite Operations.”

  The officer nods solemnly throughout this explanation, letting him know he has her full attention. She speaks her next question slowly, as if she’s carefully choosing her words. “You understand that it is concerning to us that a ‘private military company’ should come into this country for the single purpose of consorting with a known radical element?”

  Lincoln echoes the officer’s precise manner of speaking. “Ma’am, as I have explained, we are not here on company business. We’ve come to see a Filipino citizen by the name of Daniel Ocampo. Our purpose was to interview him about his time as a prisoner of the Saomong Cooperative Cybernetic Army—an experience that took place eight years ago, in a distant country.”

  ~~~

  Later that night, True sits with her arms crossed, facing the same officer, presenting a confident, self-contained front. The simmering anger underneath well disguised.

  She has already answered questions about Requisite Operations, and about her knowledge of Daniel Ocampo and Reynaldo Gabriel. The questions she dreaded, about the time spent at the printer’s, have not materialized. They may have gotten lucky. That operation was paid for with pre-purchased codes that are not immediately traceable, so it’s possible the police don’t know they were there.

  True has finally gotten the senior officer to confirm why they were detained. She had already guessed the answer, but to hear it spoken…

  Her voice remains soft but there is a fiery edge to her words. “Eight years ago, my son, a United States Army soldier, was captured and murdered by the terrorist organization known as the Saomong CCA. He died fighting terrorism, ma’am. And here, tonight, you tell me that I have been detained on suspicion of terrorism, simply for asking questions of Daniel Ocampo, another victim of the Saomong and a witness to my son’s execution.”

  There is real sympathy in the officer’s eyes as she says, “I understand your passion, Ms. Brighton. My own son was killed in action in Mindanao.”

  True inclines her head. “I’m sorry to hear it. You have my deepest sympathies.” She lets her shoulders relax; she rests her hands on the table. “I don’t mean to cause trouble for you, but you need to understand that the American media is going to have a field day with this story.”

  ~~~

  “Yes,” Miles says in answer to a question from the slim, neatly uniformed young officer conducting his interview. “I am a freelance journalist. I discovered Daniel Ocampo’s existence while working on another story. Rey Gabriel arranged the interview. He’s acted as our guide.”

  His voice is calm. He is calm. Silently he repeats True’s words, telling himself, This is not like before.

  Miles has used those words over and over, a comforting mantra that allowed him to hide his panic when a cell door closed behind him. The national police have their own reputation, but they are not Al-Furat. He is not in the custody of Hussam El-Hashem. This is not like before.

  The officer proves it by speaking in a polite, conversational tone. “Were you aware of Mr. Ocampo’s radical associations?”

  “Yes, in a general way.”

  “Are you aware that Mr. Ocampo is interested in hiring the services of Requisite Operations?”

  Miles is stunned at the accusation—but he’s pleased too, because their innocence will be easy to prove. “No,” he says firmly. “That’s not true. It’s not remotely credible. What you need to do is contact the United States Department of State. I’m sure you’ll find officials eager to vouch for the integrity of both Lincoln Han and Requisite
Operations.”

  “Yes, Mr. Dushane,” the young officer agrees. “That will be part of our investigation. Can you tell me, is it your intention to write about this interview that took place with Mr. Ocampo?”

  Miles hesitates, pondering the motive behind this question. Have the police realized they’ve got nothing? No evidence? Just a looming propaganda nightmare…

  If what they need now is a graceful way out of this situation, he’ll do what he can to help. “No, I won’t be writing about the interview,” Miles says. “Mr. Ocampo stipulated that what he had to say was not for publication. He spoke to us only as a personal favor to True Brighton and Alex Delgado.” He gives the officer a knowing look. “So far, I don’t have a story to report on. Let’s not change that, okay?”

  Into Thin Air

  They are held overnight. No hotel. No shower. No sleep. But at 0400, word comes that they will be released. The senior officer who spoke yesterday with True comes to see her, and personally escorts her to a police van waiting in a garage behind the station. On the way she explains the confusion: “We received faulty intelligence, facts confused, dates wrong, names inconsistent, but it came from a credible source so we had to treat it seriously. I’m sure you understand.”

  True plays the required role, speaking politely, communicating that they are both rational women who understand the complexities inherited from the War on Terror. “A perfect storm of inadvertent errors.”

  “Yes. But we have been in discussions with your Department of State and have assurance that you and your companions are respectable and do not threaten our security here.”

  True considers several responses but judges them all too acerbic, too sarcastic, too patronizing. In the end, she simply inclines her head as if in thanks. “May I get my things back?”

  “All possessions are waiting for you in the van. Your friends too, your husband. We will drive you to the airport, where you will wait for your flight, and leave our country as you have already planned.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Can’t fucking wait.

  Shaw is out there somewhere in the wide world. True hopes that by the time they get home, Tamara will have a lead on where to look for him.